THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LA  PORTE  IN  JUNE 


BY 

CLARA  J.  ARMSTRONG 


CHICAGO 
R.  R.  DONNELLEY  &  SONS  COMPANY 


-RS 


TO   THE    PEOPLE   OF   LA   POKTE, 
AMONGST   WHOM    I   HAVK    LIVED   CONTENTEDLY 

ALL    MY    LIFE, 

THIS    LITTLK    BOOK   IS    RESPECTFULLY 
DEDICATED. 


762902 


Many  years  have  elapsed  since  the  first  poem 
herein  was  written,  and  materially  La  Porte  has 
changed.  She  has  extended  her  boundaries  in  every 
direction,  and  has  become  more  populous.  The  "one 
long  street"  for  trade  has  now  several  branches, 
and  room  ha;  been  made  at  different  points  for  various 
thriving  industries.  But  the  spirit  of  peace  still 
nestles  in  the  shade  of  her  streets  and  long  avenues, 
and  she  still  retains  that  quiet,  restful  atmosphere 
•which  makes  her  distinctively  a  City  of  Sweet  Homes. 


LA   PORTE   IN   JUNE 

A  city  lapped  on  a  fruitful  plain, 

Bright  clover  meadows  and  fields  of  grain 

Wave  around  it,  and  send  their  sweets 

To  the  cottage  doors  in  the  quiet  streets. 

There  are  miles  of  heavenly  blue  on  high, 

And  miles  of  the  richest  emerald  dye, 

Spread  on  the  teeming  earth  below. 

Far  as  the  dazzled  sight  can  go, 

Save  to  the  north,  where  the  green  line  breaks 

For  the  crystal  flash  of  lovely  lakes  ; 

A  jewel  chain  on  the  prairie's  breast, 

That  shines  and  trembles  in  bright  unrest  ; 

7 


As  the  happy  earth  swings  day  and  night 
Out  of  the  shadow  into  the  light, 
Sings,  as  it  swings  to  a  joyful  tune, 
Into  the  golden  light  of  June. 

June,  in  the  beautiful  bowerv  town 
Where  the  level  streets  stretch  smoothly  down 
Through  lines  of  maple  and  oak  and  pine, 
Garnished  by  many  a  graceful  vine. 
There  is  one  long  street  for  traffic  and  trade — 
All  the  others  for  peace  and  shade  ; 
And  nestlike  homes,  row  after  row, 
With  walls  of  garnet  and  brown  and  snow. 
Veiled  by  the  shadows  of  trees  and  bowers 
Of  evergreen  shrubs  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 
From  lowly  cottage  to  lofty  hall 
Leafage  and  bloom  adorn  them  all. 
Where  in  the  wide  West  will  you  meet 
Such  sylvan  charms  in  a  city  street — 
Such  wealth  of  blossoms  and  grand  old  trees  ; 
Such  mingled  music  of  birds  and  breeze  ? 
Surely  the  human  life  must  be 
Better  for  such  sweet  company. 
Behold  the  fountains  sparkling  fair, 
Cooling  the  languid  summer  air 
With  gentle  showers  of  dewy  spray, 
Rising  and  falling  the  livelong  day ; 
8 


Rising  and  falling  in  silvery  drips 
Soft  as  the  kisses  from  baby  lips. 
The  eglantine  at  the  window-sill 
Shakes  to  the  caged  canary's  trill 


And  the  children  pause  in  their  evening  play 

To  hear  the  oriole's  wilder  lay 

Float  down  from  the  top  of  a  tall  oak  tree 

Glad  as  a  free  bird's  song  can  be. 

Here  is  a  cool  and  calm  retreat 

For  the  weary  soul  and  the  wandering  feet  ; 

No  sweet  homes  on  earth  more  sweet. 


Come  in  the  quiet  afternoon 

And  set  your  spirit's  har^  in  tune 

With  Nature's  joyous  pulse  that  plays 

In  all  her  thousand  mystic  ways  ; 

And  garner  up  while  June  is  here 

Souls  full  of  summer  for  the  year. 

Take  from  the  lily's  golden  heart 

Unto  thine  own  a  spotless  part. 

Take  from  the  rose  her  fragrant  breath, 

And  cherish  it  for  life  and  death. 

Of  health  and  joy,  a  generous  share,      r 

Take  from  the  bounteous,  blessed  air  ; 

Then  freely  give — as  the  earth  gives  sheaves, 

And  prairie  grasses,  and  forest  leaves — 

When  winter  storms  around  you  roll 

Give  forth  the  summer  of  the  soul. 

***** 

The  lakes  are  still  as  lakes  of  glass, 
The  shadowy  clouds  above  them  pass  ; 
The  earth  and  heaven  almost  seem 
Like  the  figures  in  a  mixed  dream, 
Reflected  in  the  wave  below; 
Which  is  the  real — you  hardly  know — 
Upon  the  pictured  glassy  tide  ? 
Behold  that  fairy  steamer  ride, 
Like  a  graceful  bird  upon  the  wing, 
Or  a  little  maiden  in  a  swing  ; 


She  floats  so  light,  she  glides  so  free, 
Over  the  fairy  land-locked  sea. 
Her  colors  fly  out  far  and  gay, 
She  wears  a  festal  fine  array, 


And  bears  her  merry  crew  along 
With  many  a  laugh  and  many  a  song, 
To  seek  some  haven  of  repose 
From  all  their  little  cares  and  woes. 


And  may  they  find  it — winter's  gloom 
Treads  close  upon  the  summer's  bloom ; 


And  care,  when  it  abides  too  long, 
Will  sear  the  heart  however  strong. 
Soon  may  they  find  it — ere  the  day 
Has  fled  forever,  on  its  way 
To  stand  afar  on  Time's  dim  shore 
With  ghosts  of  those  lost  long  before  ; 
Which  slipped  away  ere  yet  we  knew 
That  days  in  June  are  all  too  few. 


11 


THE   BUILDING  OF  THE  SPIRE 

JULY,   1884 

How  long  the  cedar  and  the  pine 
In  nature's  patient  hand  must  wait 
Before  they  reach  their  full  estate 

As  perfect  columns  in  her  shrine. 

But  man,  with  a  magician's  power, 

Seizes  what  all  the  years  have  wrought, 
And  shapes  it  to  his  deepest  thought 

In  the  brief  circle  of  his  hour. 
13 


From  my  high  window  in  the  west 
I  watched  the  building  of  the  spire, 
As  dark  against  the  sunset's  fire 

It  towered  above  the  grove's  green  erest. 

I  heard  the  ringing  hammers  play 

In  hands  unfaltering,  strong,  and  true, 
While  firmly  up  toward  the  blue 

The  builders  mounted  day  by  day. 

When  suddenly  complete  and  fair 
In  the  tall  pinnacle's  strong  hold 
The  golden  ball  and  cross  of  gold 

Rose,  shining  in  the  summer  air. 

Will  it  not  vanish  like  a  dream, 

Or  pass  with  sunset's  crimson  cloud, 
Or  with  the  morning's  misty  shroud 

Melt  in  Aurora's  earliest  beam  ? 

Ah,  no  ;  firm  as  the  oak  it  stands  ; 

The  sun  shall  greet  it  many  a  year  ; 

And  one  by  one  will  disappear 
The  builders  with  the  busy  hands. 

Yet  still  above  the  grove's  green  crest 
The  "Kyrkan's"  lofty  spire  will  rise 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  other  eyes 

From  my  high  window  in  the  west. 


When  the  tired  traveler  from  afar 

Beholds  the  spire  whose  shadow  falls 
Beside  his  own  dear  cottage  walls 

Under  the  blessed  evening  star, 

That  slender  signal  in  the  sky, 
Straight  as  the  needle  to  the  pole 
Marks  the  bright  magnets  of  his  soul, 

The  home  on  earth — the  Home  on  high. 


THE  OLD   BOOK 

My  treasured  book,  my  poet's  soul, 

Since  first  I  marked  vou  for  my  own 
The  years  have  called  a  lengthy  roll, 

And  worn  and  gray  we  both  have  grown. 
Your  tarnished  gold,  my  failing  eyes, 

Bear  witness  to  the  hand  of  time. 
I  feel  it  with  a  sad  surprise 

We  have  outlived  our  youthful  prime. 

But  what  are  surface  siains  to  you, 

Who  speak  from  every  faded  page 
The  thought  forever  young  and  true, 

The  visions  all  untouched  by  age  ? 
Between  these  covers  worn  and  old 

A  wondrous  realm  of  beauty  lies ; 
Where  Life  and  Love  and  Death  unfold 

To  music  from  the  upper  skies. 

Sir  Galahad  and  sweet  Elaine, 

And  the  "  fair  women"  of  the  "  Dream,' 
King  Arthur  and  his  courtly  train, 

Bright  spirits  all  to  me  they  seem 
16 


Here  first  I  met  them  ;  here  first  fell 
The  deep-toned  "voices  "  on  my  ear, 

And  that  grand  dirge  whose  solemn  knell 
Thrilled  round  the  world  from  Hallam's  bier. 

When  dark  and  dreary  was  the  day, 

And  sullen  clouds  did  overbend 
Beyond  "the  hills  and  far  away," 

I  slipped  with  this  dear  poet  friend. 
I  lingered  oft  in  "  Lotus  Land," 

And  oft  in  Arden's  lonely  isle, 
Or,  when  the  Princess  waved  her  hand, 

Breathed  her  enchanted  air  awhile. 

I  heard  the  "horns  of  Elfland  blow"; 

I  heard  a  sweet  song's  dying  fall, 
And  saw  beyond  the  sunset's  glow 

The  "  splendor  on  the  castle  wall." 
In  her  still  bower  beside  the  stream 

I  found  the  "  Lady  of  Shalott"— 
On  earth  and  sky  beheld  "  The  Gleam," 

And  sordid  cares  were  all  forgot. 

Oh,  Poet  of  the  magic  power, 

Who  sat  upon  the  mountain  height 

Chanting  your  dreams  from  hour  to  hour, 
While  the  world  listened  with  delight — 
17 


You  sway  our  souls  unto  your  law 
Of  melody  and  beauty  wrought, 

And  up  to  clearer  levels  draw 

The  turbid  stream  of  common  thought ! 


18 


THE  JUBILEE   YEAR— 1876 

The    storm-clouds    are    brooding  aloft  in  the 

air, 
And  the  clarion  blast  whistles  loud  at  the 

door, 
While  the  shadow  of  fear  and  the  phantom  of 

care 

Enter    in    where    they    never    had    entered 
before. 

Oh,  Jubilee  Year  !  the  first  notes  of  thy  song 
Are     minor-keyed     melodies,     sad     to     the 

soul, 
For  the  strong  men  have  given  their  strength 

to  the  wrong, 

And  dishonored  their  names  on  the  National 
Scroll. 

The    working-man     sits     with    his     idle    arms 

crossed 

By  the  want-stricken  hearth,  with  a  sigh  in 
his  breast, 

19 


For  the  Spring  is  at  hand,  but  the  Winter  was 

lost  ; 
He  had  rest,  but  no  comfort  nor  joy  in  his 

rest. 

Oh,  Jubilee  Year  !  ere  thy  blossoms  have  come 
And  March  winds  are  tempered  by  perfumes 

of  May. 
Hear  the  laborer's  prayer  ;  let  the  busy  earth 

hum 

To  the  grand  hymn  of  Industry,  day  after 
day  ! 

The  Century  roundeth  to  fullness  ;  the  flower, 
Whose  beauty  the  whole  world  is  longing 

to  see, 
Should  look  on  a  people,  the  wealth  of  whose 

power 

Is  in  freedom  to  learn  what  it  means  to  be 
free. 

Free  to  live,  free  to  love,  and  work  as   men 

should, 

As  true  brothers  and  friends  in  the  work 
shop  of  God. 
To  work  wisely  for  self,  and  the  great  common 

good, 

For  the  eyes  of  the  nations  who  watch  from 
abroad. 


Oh,  Jubilee  Year  !  the  first  notes  of  thy  song 
Are  minor-keyed  melodies  sad  to  the  soul. 
Oh,  grant  us  the  last  chords  triumphant  and 

strong  ! 

Give  us  honest  men's  names  on  the  National 
Scroll. 


CARVED   ON  A  STONE 

There  was  a  light,  which  shone  from  tender 

eyes, 

A  melody  that  rang  from  tuneful  lips  ; 
They  vanished — like   a  star  that  trembling 

slips 
Out  of  the  autumn  skies. 

And  gently  here,  beneath  this  marble  stone, 
Life's  broken  harp  was  gathered  to  the  rest 
Which  nature  giveth  to  the  empty  breast  ; 

The  chrysalis  outgrown. 

We  thought  she  seemed  like  a  fair  rose  in  June, 
She  wore  such  royal  colors  in  her  face ; 
A  lovely  flower  who  made  a  fragrant  place, 

And  dropped  her  leaves  too  soon. 

But  in  the  garden  where  she  used  to  grow 
There  lingers  yet,  and  will  forevermore, 
A    something    sweet  which   was    not    there 
before, 

Though  roses  always  blow. 


And  evermore  the  echo  of  a  song — 

"Remember   me"   —sighs   near  the  garden 

walls, 
As  with  a  strain  of  music  swells  and  falls 

A  young  voice  clear  and  strong. 

She  liveth  still,  not  to  the  grosser  sense  ; 

We  dwell  so  far  below  the  spirit  spheres  ; 

But  love  will  keep  through  all  the  changing 

years 
Love's  finer  elements. 

And  sometimes  in  a  pause  of  life's  unrest 
Some  holy  hush  of  twilight  and  repose, 
The   shadows    wav'ring    break  —  and    then 
disclose 

A  bright  face  heaven-blest. 

No  word  is  spoken — soul  to  soul  is  known — 
And  soul  to  soul  diviner  meanings  teach 
Than    ever    clothed    themselves    in    mortal 
speech 

To  be  carved  on  a  stone. 


THE  FASHIONS  FOR  MAY 

Madame  Nature  is  making  the  yearly  display 
Of    her    latest    designs     in    her    old    winning 

way. 
Her    soft    emerald    veil    floating    out    on    the 

breeze 
Has  been  caught  on  the  heads  of  the  skeleton 

trees — 
All  her  colors  are  blended  with  consummate 

skill, 
And  her  draperies  trail  o'er  the  plain  and  the 

hill 

With  the  generous  sweep  of  a  prodigal  queen  ; 
Grass-fringed    and    leaf-broidered    in    velvety 

green. 

What  sweet  flowers  she  wears  ?     What  a  mu 
sical  throng 
Make  the  gay  bowers  ring  with  its  burden  of 

song  ! 
And  I   thought  as    I   listened   I   heard  a  bird 

say, 
"  O   to  bloom  and   be   fair  is  the  fashion  for 

May  !" 


The    dear   Madame    changes   her    modes   with 

good  reason  ; 
Her  styles  always  suit  with  the  times  and  the 

season  ; 

There  is  never  a  blossom  or  a  bud  out  of  place, 
And  her  patterns  are  marvels  of  beauty  and 

grace. 
There  are   creeping   pulsations    in  leaflet   and 

root, 
And  the  plan   of  the  flower  foreshadows  the 

fruit. 
There  is  work  to  be  done  ;  there  is  growth  to 

attain 
From  the  slender  young  blade  to  the  harvest 

of  grain  ! 

The   woods    must   be   trimmed   and   the   roses 

unfolded, 
The     treasures   of    Autumn    be     painted     and 

molded  ! 
And  no  sound  of  the  hammer  or  saw  shall  be 

heard, 
For  the  planet   rolls   on   to   the  song  of  the 

bird, 
And   silently   draws    from    the   depths  of    her 

bosom 

The  iron-limbed  oak  and  the  delicate  blossom  ; 
25 


And  no  man  has  learned  how  she  works  on 

the  vine, 
To  bring  out  through  its  fibers  her  fountain  of 

wine. 

She  giveth  her  nurslings  their  uses  and  graces, 
And  calleth  from  clouds  and  the  far-distant 

spaces 

The  raindrops  and  secret  electrical  power 
Which  throbs  in  the  heart  of  the  rock  and  the 

flower  ; 

And  to  life's  full  fruition  she  leadeth  the  way 
When  adorning  herself  in  the  fashions  for  May. 

Come,  O  daughters  of  Eve,  let  us  read  and  be 

wise 
In  the  great  Book  whose  pages  unfold  to  the 

skies  ! 

For  the  fashions  of  May  are  the  letters  of  light, 
In  which  the  Great  Author  of  all  loves  to  write  ; 
And  "  Life's  manifestations,"  the  text  seems 

to  say, 

Are  all  good  though  in  homely  or  lovely  array; 
But  your  souls  seek  for  beauty,  as  bright  waters 

run 

To  the  sea  ;  as  a  flower  lifts  its  face  to  the  sun  ; 
You  would  float  on  the  tide  with  a  favoring 

breeze, 

26 


Or,  like  butterflies,  bask  in  the  sun  at  your  ease  ; 

Forgetting  how  ceaseless  and  strong  the  en 
deavor 

Which  Nature  puts  forth  in  the  flower  and 
river, 

And  always  and  ever  the  magical  charm 

Which  the  frosts  cannot  blight,  nor  the  heat 
ever  harm  ; 

Lies  in  spiritual  growth,  and  the  fashion  of 
Truth, 

Which  outlive  the  gay  fashions  of  beauty  and 
youth  : 

Put  your  hands  to  some  labor  of  love,  and 
forget 

That  your  brow  has  been  sad  and  your  eye 
lashes  wet  ; 

For  the  idle  white  ringers,  so  fair  to  the  view, 

Would  be  better  for  having  some  good  work 
to  do, 

Still  move  on  and  move  upward,  grow  grace 
fully  old, 

And  grow  wiser  and  sweeter  as  years  are 
unrolled  ; 

And  though  time  swiftly  glides,  and  your  youth 
fades  away, 

You  will  wear  in  the  spirit  the  fashion  for  May. 


THE   ROSE   LOVER 

Place  no  marble  o'er  his  head, 
But  a  red  rose-tree  instead  ! 
Let  white  roses  pale  and  sweet 
Drop  their  blossoms  round  his  feet  ! 
Oft  he  went  with  willing  hand, 
Planting  flowers  about  the  land  ; 
Sowing  in  the  desert  spot 
Heart 'sease  and  forget-me-not  ; 
Leaving  in  his  fragrant  trail 
Fairy  lilies  of  the  vale  ; 
But  he  ever  loved  the  rose 
More  than  any  flower  that  grows. 
Though  the  years  were  full  of  care, 
Patiently  he  bore  his  share  ; 
While  the  rose  sprang  from  the  soil 
He  had  courage  for  his  toil. 
Now  the  pilgrimage  is  done, 
And  the  blessed  goal  is  won, 
Let  the  cover  of  his  bed 
With  his  favorite  flower  be  spread. 


28 


SHADOW 

The  heart  of  the  earth  beats  low  to-night 
Under  her  vestments  of  icy  white  ; 
There  is  no  music  of  pulse  or  breath, 
The  trance  of  winter  is  deep  as  death. 
There  is  no  music,  but  winds  make  moan, 
And  wander  the  dreary  plains  alone — 
Sighing  like  mourners,  who  sigh  and  weep 
By  the  grave-beds,  where  their  lost  loves  sleep. 
The  stars  have  hidden  their  golden  eyes, 
In  the  cloudy  veil  that  shrouds  the  skies, 
And  trails  on  the  frozen  waste  below, 
Its  sable  shadow  across  the  snow. 
Earth  seems  like  a  rudderless  bark  at  sea, 
To  drift  in  the  deep  immensity, 
To  sink  and  to  swoon  from  life  and  light, 
Into  the  regions  of  Death  and  Night. 


LIGHT 

The  planet  keeps  to  her  airy  track, 
In  the  star-gemmed  ring  of  the  Zodiac  ; 
Through  blackest  midnight,  and  gulfs  of  gloom 
Where   wild   winds   shriek   like    the    voice    of 

doom — 

She  rolls  securely,  and  firm  and  fast, 
Wheels  into  the  sunward  path  at  last. 
Her  life  is  constant — the  Southlands  glow 
With  verdure,  beyond  the  lines  of  snow. 
Though  pale  and  cold  to  our  Northern  view, 
She  weareth  a  girdle  of  rainbow  hue 
Which  under  the  deathless  sun  lies  curled, 
And  broadens  yearly  around  the  world. 
Ten  thousand  winters  have  failed  to  blight 
Or  quench  the  warmth  of  its  living  light  ; 
And  never  yet  have  the  summers  failed, 
At  the  farthest  point  where  ships  have  sailed, 
To  thrill,  though  with  ever  so  light  a  hand, 
The  frozen  life  of  the  frozen  land ; 
To  drop  some  blossom,  however  small, 
By  the  Arctic  sea  and  Alpine  wall. 
3° 


THE  IRON  WORKERS 

Send  a  piercing  iron  note 

From  the  engine's  brazen  throat  ! 

Loose  the  belt  and  stop  the  wheel  ; 

Drop  the  tools  of  brass  and  steel  ; 

Shut  the  workshop,  turn  the  key 

Leave  the  still  machinery. 

Let  its  giant  shadows  fall, 

Weird  and  silent  on  the  wall, 

Black  against  the  moonbeams  white  ; 

Till  another  workday's  light. 

Now  for  quiet,  now  for  rest, 
These  of  all  things  seem  the  best. 
As  a  miser  grasps  his  gold, 
Do  the  iron  forces  hold 
Firm  resistance  to  our  might, 
In  the  long  and  stubborn  fight ; 
Every  muscle  strained  and  tense 
Must  make  vigilant  defense  ; 

Till  our  senses  swim  and  reel, 
Like  the  swift  revolving  wheel  ; 
31 


Till  our  pulses  throb  and  beat 

Like  the  engine's  in  the  heat ; 

And  to  our  own  souls  we  seem 

Men  of  iron,  fire  and  steam. 

So  are  earth's  crude  riches  wrought ; 

Into  forms  of  human  thought  ; 

Trade  improves  and  commerce  thrives, 

While  we  battle  for  our  lives. 

Now  for  quiet,  now  for  rest, 
These  of  all  things  seem  the  best, 
For  tired  limbs  and  wearv  brain, 
Sleep  will  charm  away  the  pain. 
We  may  have  a  restful  dream, 
Of  wild  wood  and  gliding  stream 
From  some  breezy  mountain  side, 
Drink  of  heaven's  inflowing  tide  , 
From  afar  may  catch  the  gleam 
Of  joys  known  only  in  a  dream  ; 
For  our  higher  natures  crave, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Something  more  'twixt  Life  and  Death, 
Than  the  daily  Bread  and  Breath. 

Let  earth  a  charmed  silence  keep 
While  we  restful  dream  and  sleep — 
Sleep  and  dream  of  that  blest  age. 
Long  foretold  by  seer  and  sage, 
32 


When  the  working-man  shall  be 
Heir  of  a  nobler  destiny, 
Than  for  aye  to  delve  and  toil 
In  the  grimy  smoke  and  soil 
With  the  burdens  of  the  day 
For  the  hireling's  scanty  pay, 
With  a  starving,  untaught  soul 
Chafing  at  the  stern  control 
Of  necessities  that  bind 
Hand  and  foot  and  struggling  mind, 
Making  all  the  rough  ways  straight, 
That  the  world  may  ride  in  state, 
While  he  walks  with  aching  feet 
Humbly  to  the  grave's  retreat. 

That  bright  age  shall  find  him  still 
Ready  at  the  forge  and  mill, 
With  appliances  of  art 
Which  shall  do  the  giant's  part  ; 
And  with  Science  at  his  side, 
He  will  still  direct  and  guide 
All  the  elements  of  power 
To  the  uses  of  the  hour. 
Still  beneath  the  smiling  skies 
Mighty  cities  shall  arise — 
Banished  deserts  shall  disclose 
Gardens  blooming  like  the  rose — 
33 


Still  his  deeds  of  noble  worth 
Shall  bless  and  beautify  the  earth. 
But  for  him  more  leisure  hours, 
Less  of  iron,  more  of  flowers  ; 
His  life's  music  then  shall  be 
Played  upon  a  softer  key. 

He  will  sit  at  Wisdom's  feet, 
Learn  to  keep  her  counsel  sweet. 
He  will  find  through  visions  high 
Better  ways  to  live  and  die — • 
Deepest  problems  solve  anew 
When  the  prophecies  come  true. 


34 


THE  WHEELMAN 

When  the  summer  day  is  dewy  and  sweet — 
When    the    summer    sun    is   but   two   hours 
high, 

I  can  see  from  my  cushioned  window-seat 
A  tall  young  man  on  his  wheel  go  by. 

As  swift  as  a  swallow  he  flashes  past  ; 

And  onward,  onward,  forever  on, 
Must  his  watchword  be,  as  he  flies  so  fast 

Toward  the  rim  of  the  distant  horizon. 

When  the  smoky  breath  of  the  restless  town 
Mingles  aloft  with  the  breath  of  heaven, 

He  spins  each  morn  o'er  the  long  green  down, 
And  back  with  the  birds  to    their  nests  at 
even. 

He  rides  and  he  glides,  and  he  treads  the  air, 
As    if    "  Boundless    Spaces  "    were    all    his 

own, 

And  he  sits,  well  poised  in  his  saddle  there, 
As  a  king  might  sit  on  his  gilded  throne. 
35 


Oh,  the  joy  of  motion  so  fine  and  free, 
Of  the  swift  pursuit  of  some  prize  afar, 

Of  sailing  the  buoyant,  measureless  sea 
Of  air,  by  the  touch  of  the  handle-bar  ! 

Oh,  the  winged  words  of  old  Homer's  song, 
And  the  winged  chargers  that  trod  the  sky  ! 

How  the  ancient  tales  to  my  mem'ry  throng 
When  the  tall,    young  man   on    his   wheel 
goes  by  ! 


HER  SMILE 

My  Dorothy  Dimple,  as  old  Time  flies 

He  may  dim  the  light  of  your  brown,  bright 

eyes, 

He  may  fade  the  tints  of  your  silken  hair, 
And  wrinkle  the  cheek  with  the  dimples  fair, 
And  all  that  this  robber  of  youth  might  do 
I  would  not  dare  even  to  whisper  you  ! 

But  Dorothy  Dimple,  never  you  mind, 
He  may  bring  you  gifts  of  another  kind, 
For  he  is  not  truly  a  thief,  you  know, 
But  giving  and  taking,  he  makes  one  grow. 

37 


If  you  treat  him  kindly,  and  use  him  well, 
You  will  fall  but  softly  under  his  spell  ; 
And  light  will  his  touch  be  upon  your  brow, 
If  you  smile  in  his  face  as  you're  smiling  now. 


TRUE  FREEDOM 

If  the  laboring  man  would  be 

Independent,  strong,  and  free, 

First,  with  all  the  foes  within, 

He  the  warfare  must  begin. 

With  envious  low  desires, 

And  with  passion's  baleful  fires — 

With  the  "  weed  "  that  numbs  the  brain, 

And  the  "  cup  "  that  leaves  a  stain 

On  the  lip,  and  on  the  life, 

Let  him  wage  a  noble  strife  ! 

Victory  will  make  him  bold, 

And  his  enemies  of  old — 

Those  who  have  oppressed  him  long — 

Ignorance  and  Want  and  Wrong- — - 

In  his  strengthened  arm  shall  feel 

Something  keener  far  than  steel  ! 


39 


THE  MILLINER  GIRL 

You  are  sitting  and  stitching  to-day 

'Midst  a  flutter  of  ribbons  and  lace, 
Giving  all  the  new  bonnets  for  May 

Your  own  touch  of  the  milliner's  grace. 
From  the  window  you  see  the  blue  sky, 

And  the  clouds  floating  there  in  the  sun, 
And  your  bosom  is  stirred  with  a  sigh, 

And  a  wish  that  the  trimming  was  done. 
But  roses  and  ribbons  are  all  in  a  whirl, 

And  the  ladies  are  waiting,  my  milliner  girl. 

O  the  maidens  with  black  eyes  and  blue, 

And  the  matrons  with  dark  locks  and  fair  ; 
They  are  watching  and  waiting  for  you, 

And  the  hats  they  are  longing  to  wear  ; 
And  'tis  little  they  heed  how  you  sigh, 

Or  how  weary  your  fingers  may  be, 
Each  will  say  in  her  turn  :  "  O  do  try 

To  make  something  becoming  to  me." 
For  coil  and  for  braid  and  for  soft  flowing  curl 

Form  a  suitable  setting,  my  milliner  girl. 
4o 


For  these  trifles  that  seem  light  as  air 

Still  are  symbols  of  joy  or  of  woe, 
As  they  rest  on  the  damsel's  bright  hair, 

Or  the  grandmother's  light  crown  of  snow; 
For  who  would  be  garnished  and  gay 

When  her  heart  and  her  fortunes  are  sad, 
Or  who,  when  the  clouds  pass  away, 

Does  not  show  by  her  hat  she  is  glad. 
Then  a  wreath  for  the  bride,  a  plume  and  a 
pearl  ; 

But  crape  for  the  mourner,  my  milliner  girl. 

And,  dear  milliner  girl,  as  you  sew, 

Take  your  stitches  with  womanly  art, 
And,  while  shaping  the  loop  and  the  bow, 

May  this  thought  bring  a  balm  to  your  heart : 
That  the  world  needs  you  there  in  your  place  ; 

Needs  the  work  which  you  only  can  do — 
That  the  lilies  have  not  so  much  grace 

As  a  maiden  whose  service  is  true- 
In  office  or  kitchen  or  there  in  the  whirl 

Of  your  ribbons  and  roses,  dear  milliner  girl. 


41. 


THE  DEMAND  FOR  TRUTH 

Thus  were  we  taught — that  in  Eden's  bower 
The  serpent  poisoned  the  fairest  flower, 
And  planted  the  seed  of  a  deathless  sin 
Which  stealthily  grew  all  hearts  within  ; 
And  the  ill  he  wrought  had  power  to  sever 
Man  from  the  face  of  his  God  forever. 
The  nations  mourned  the  great  disaster, 
And  strove  to  appease  the  avenging  master  ; 
But  the  wrath  of  God  o'er  his  thwarted  plan, 
Still  darkly  followed  his  creature  man, 
In  the  raging  seas,  in  the  lightning's  stroke 
Which  over  the  mountain  in  fury  broke  ; 
In  the  earthquake's  shock,  in  the  fiery  rain 
That  the  red  volcano  threw  over  the  plain  ; 
In  the  pestilent  breath  of  a  marshy  fen, 
And  the  jarring  wars  of  the  souls  of  men, 
In  every  thorn  on  the  earth's  green  sod 
Was  read  a  sign  of  the  wrath  of  God. 

Hut  mixed  withtheillswhichtheserpentbrought 
There   were  grains   of    wisdom   and  gems   of 
thought  ; 

42 


And  the  ages,  bitter  and  slow  and  sweet, 
Have  ripened  the  harvest  about  our  feet. 
We  face  the  future,  and  yet  look  back 
Over  the  Old  World's  devious  track  ; 
And  searching  the  heart  of  the  mighty  past, 
May  ponder  its  lessons  sad  and  vast. 
We  read  by  a  glorious  Light,  whose  ray 
Has  melted  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  away — 
That  shines  on  the  Laws  of  the  Universe, 
All  working  in  order,  without  the  curse  ; 
And  the  struggling  races  of  men,  who  climbed 
As  the  plants   climb  sunward,  and   yet   more 

blind 

Than  the  vine — who  knoweth  its  vital  needs — 
In  their  ignorant  fear  of  kings  and  creeds, 
But  climbing  and  falling  with  laboring  moan, 
As  slow  as  the  continents,  man  has  grown 
Through  woes  unnumbered,  through  blood  and 

tears, 
From  his  childish  faith  and  his  slavish  fears. 

But  climbing  and  falling  and  rising  still 
To  a  clearer  brain,  and  a  firmer  will, 
To  a  higher  plane — to  a  keener  sight, 
To  a  larger  heart — and  a  soul  of  might, 
That  has  flung  the  shackles  of  fear  away, 
And  is  boldly  asking  for  truth  to-day. 
43 


For  truth  alone,  though  the  heavens  fall, 
For  man  and  for  woman — the  truth  for  all. 
Though  his  cherished  faith  be  swept  away 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  yesterday— 
And   though   hope's   fair  structures  be    over 
thrown, 

He  asks  for  truth,  and  the  truth  alone. 
Then  proffer  not  stones  for  bread,  O  ye 
Who  sit  on  the  thrones  of  authority  ! 
Nor  jingle  a  counterfeit  coin  in  view 
Of  a  questioning  world  and  call  it  true  ! 
Lest  the  keen-eyed  scorners  of  your  deceit 
Should  rise  and  hurl  you  beneath  their  feet. 


44 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

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A    000919327    7 


1954 


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A725  l 


